


Teach Ten Thousand Stars How Not To Dance

by Ladycat



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Dirty Talk, M/M, Puddlejumper Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-12
Updated: 2014-02-12
Packaged: 2018-01-12 03:29:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1181364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ladycat/pseuds/Ladycat
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John ground his hips into the co-pilot's chair and dredged up a familiar litany. "Sure. Just don't go too fast." 'Jumper porn!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Teach Ten Thousand Stars How Not To Dance

The 'jumper wasn't really totally silent. There was a hum that vibrated right at the back of his mind, tucked away with thoughts that turned grey and smoky around the edges, memories he had to really think about to bring forward. Most of the time it was ignorable, as familiar as his heartbeat and just as reassuring.

Sometimes, though.

Licking his lips was probably a give-away. It helped that Rodney wasn't looking, except part of the problem was that _Rodney wasn't looking_. John was left to suffer alone, caught up in a vise of _buzz, buzz, buzz_ , shivering along the back of his neck, prickling the skin. If he thought he could, he'd rub the back of his neck, erase the obvious tell like a brush smoothing over a chalkboard.

Moving, though. Moving meant engaging muscles and letting electric pulses slide through his nervous system and dammit, _dammit_ , he couldn't think like this, he couldn't. Jesus, he was never going to be able to get in a 'jumper again at this rate.

"What if I do this?" Rodney asked, whole body lit up as he shifted his weight without even thinking about it, hands loose and easy as he sent the 'jumper into a controlled barrel-roll. There was no swoop of gravity and pressure to guide John through it, but he didn't need to check: it was perfect. _Perfect_ , as good as anything John could've done, smooth as water rolling down a window pane.

He shifted. He _had_ to, carefully balancing his weight— 

Rodney looked at him sharply, light dimming just a little. "Did I do it wrong?"

"No." Christ, was that his _voice_? Low and grating, full of things John hoped like hell would be read as _phlegm_ , because as disgusting as it was, the alternative was worse. So much worse. "You did it right."

"I did?" He was too old to say _yay_ , but it was pretty audible anyway. "Can I try those loops now?"

John ground his hips into the co-pilot's chair and dredged up a familiar litany. "Sure. Just don't go too fast."

"But I like going fast."

John's eyes fluttered. "Uh. Need— _you_ , I mean, you need to practice first." He felt like he was thirteen. No, not thirteen, _eleven_ and it wasn't bragging, just his own messed up body: he'd spent a year like this and apparently, remembering how to deal with it wasn't like riding a bike. How the hell had he _survived?_

 _Being_ eleven _probably helped. It's less noticeable then._

"Go slow," he croaked. It took all his will not to whimper a _please_.

"Mm."

Oh, that was a bad noise. That was a noise that had John gripping the arms of his chair so tightly the upholstery creaked. Rodney had so many noises and John loved them all, even the ones that were negative, because he knew them, _got_ them, some primal understanding he'd never need a primer for, just his gut thrumming along while his head went _buzz buzz buzz_ from the 'jumper all around him.

This was beyond torture.

"No, I really think I don't want to go slow," Rodney said and casually reached out a hand—stretching just a little—to lay it directly between John's legs. He didn't press. He didn't squeeze. He just left it there, pressure and heat and holy shit, he'd _known_ , he knew, more than enough.

"Uh," John swallowed.

"Slow can be useful, of course," Rodney continued and oh, oh, _now_ his hand moved, a slow, steady up and down and dammit, his pants were fucking _wet_ , dark and spreading. This was beyond humiliating, except Rodney was curving his palm around the curve of John's cock, pressing tight and heavy against his pants, and there wasn't a chance in hell he was going to move. That he'd be _able_ to move. "I like slow, sometimes. It can be fun. Except you don't particularly like slow, do you?"

John said, "Nngh."

"No, you really don't." A squeeze, right over the head and holy fuck was that—John's head jerked over, vibrating to the same damned hum that was swallowing him alive because he'd heard—he couldn't have—

But it wasn't a hallucination. Rodney was _controlling the 'jumper with his knees_ , the same way John loved to drive a car, and it shouldn't have been possible, not even a little bit, but there he was, muscles flexing and tightening and it was like every single part of Rodney was independent of another, multitasking taken to a whole new level, because his left hand was moving to an entirely different rhythm, undoing his pants and pulling out his dick.

His _dick_ : flushed and soft at the tip, just a little cockeyed, with a thick, fat base, as stocky and solid as the rest of him.

John came without a sound.

Rodney didn't him let go, carefully rubbing and squeezing him to draw it out as long as possible. Red lightning buzzed in front of John's eyes and he heard himself say, _"Fuck."_ He didn't feel it, though, not with his throat numb and his tongue cold and Rodney was pressing his thumb right under the head, pushing John into a fit of shivering from pain that really wasn't and—

And the 'jumper hummed all around them, avariciously content.

"The chair pushes back," John rasped and then ow, knees, _knees_ , except the chair was obediently rolling to expose just enough space, Rodney's arms stretching out so each of the long, thick muscles in his arms were highlighted. John's _teeth_ itched, wanting to run all over those contours—but that was for later.

For now, he shoved in between Rodney's thighs so he could feel blood and bone pressed tightly against his shoulders, fitting his mouth around as much as he could take in one go, which turned out to be kind of a lot. Cocksucking _was_ like riding a bike, even if John's breathing was all out of rhythm, his mouth wet and sloppy, because he was opening his throat like it hadn't been nearly five years, sucking Rodney down while he cupped and squeezed and jacked whatever he couldn't fit inside.

 _Fast_ Rodney had wanted. He'd meant getting to the sex part, skipping over conversations neither of them really needed to have. But he'd said fast, and John was _good_ at fast, loved it as much as that rushing, wind-blown speed loved him. So he sucked and slurped and generally acted like he was dying for it—which he was, Christ, since the first moment Rodney had powered her up like the 'jumper was a laptop he'd built with his own hands—focused on Rodney's dick in his mouth, pulsing hot and hard against his hand, while one of Rodney's buried in his hair, angling him just right.

Rodney hissed when he came. Bitter salt flooded John's mouth, burning into his sinuses. John sucked him dry, then licked him clean. He knew he should leave, now. Get up if only because his thighs hurt like hell and his pants were clammy against him.

Instead, he laid his head on Rodney’s thigh, as languid as if _he_ was the one to have just come, boneless and buzzingly satiated.

"Huh," Rodney said. A window popped up, showing a perfect straight arc. "I stayed straight."

"You better not," John rasped, and started laughing. His vision wobbled to a familiar rhythm, body thrumming just like everything around him, while Rodney spluttered and flushed and tugged on his hair. "You better fucking not."


End file.
